I think I want to become a cashier. In yesterday's classifieds I found an ad seeking Cashiers — yes, with a capital C. One of the grocery stores I frequent is looking for cashiers (who also will get to stock shelves and clean floors) to start at $10.80 per hour.
That's a lot more than I made last time I was a cashier.
This company appears to treat its workers better than everybody I cashiered for in my misspent youth, too. The people at the registers sit in chairs and customers bag their own purchases.
But, and this is what really got my attention, employees are eligible for insurance covering medical, dental, and vision after 90 days.
Wow. That would've been enough to get me excited, but wait, there's more: The company also offers a retirement income plan and 401(k), paid vacation after six months — and an extra dollar an hour for working on Sundays, when they don't open until noon.
I remember real jobs, the kind that offered such marvelous benefits. And the benefits are what I really need, thank you very much; if I could get an employer to give me decent health insurance, I might be willing to forgo a salary.
Heaven knows I've made do without one for years.
I have a graduate degree and lots of experience in areas other than retail. Before I moved, the Good Doctor instructed me not to sell myself short in my quest for work. She might not exactly approve of my aspiration to ring up roasts, instant coffee, and bags of apples.
On the other hand, I think she'd probably appreciate my desire to keep feeding and housing myself and the animals and to have the medical coverage I so feared losing when I got divorced.
When she got divorced, she was a waitress.
The ad says a representative will be available to meet Cashier hopefuls tomorrow beginning at 7 am. It'll be pretty cold then.
I hope the line won't be too long.